


The Hallowed Heights of Troy

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Series: Tumblr Shorts [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Classical References, James Bond Being James Bond, M/M, Overuse of Classical References, Pining, Q Has a Cat, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 16:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6618832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q and Bond's relationship over time, as seen at one o'clock in the morning.</p>
<p>(Or, the one where Q is full of classical allusions, Bond's grappling with loneliness, and no one's here to sleep.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hallowed Heights of Troy

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on tumblr and written for the dual prompts, "Things you said at 1 AM" and "I think I'm in love with you and I'm terrified".

Q had never been asked what his least favorite hour of the day was, but just in case the question ever arose, he had his answer at the ready: one o’clock in the morning.  It was a thin hour, watery and iridescent in an irritating manner.  0100 was caffeine withdrawal and sore fingertips and disaster; it was ibuprofen (400 mg) for headaches (induced by staring at screens) and sweaters on top of sweaters (somehow never enough to keep out the chill).  And yes, Q thought it a cold hour—unforgiving, unflinching, unrelenting.  Nothing good ever came about at 0100.

He met Bond, and everything went sideways.

* * *

 

I.

It was 1:05 in Hong Kong.  Bond had been smoking with a few Moroccan delegates under his alias of the day, and now his mind was in a fog—not from the cigars, which had been superb, but from something else, a sensation he couldn’t quite pinpoint.  He felt as though he was drifting, aimless.  It was something he felt often on missions, and he often cured it with drink, or a bedmate, or, remedy of remedies, both simultaneously.

This time, neither of those solutions appealed to him, though there were plenty of men and women in the hotel lobby who would gladly come upstairs for the night for the right price.This time, he called Q.

“Morning,” Bond said, infusing his voice with cheer.  “How is my Quartermaster today?”

“Awake,” Q said.  Bond heard him yawn over the line.  Bond had woken him.  “Should I get my laptop, or is this a personal call?”

That Q knew to ask said something about how their relationship had developed.  M had given him a stern lecture early on that he was abusing company resources—Q, mostly—but they had a system, and that was that.  Q had assured him time and time again that he didn’t mind.  (Bond probably would have called anyway.)

“Personal,” Bond assured.  “Everything’s quiet.”

“Good,” Q said.  “Tell me something.”

“The air quality here is abysmal,” Bond said.  He stared out a window in his hotel room and looked out over the city.  It was a nice room with an oversized bed and expensive sheets, but the smog outside could dampen any mood.  He could hardly see the lights across the city, much less the sky.“Can’t see the stars.”

“Do you stargaze often?” Q asked.

“No,” Bond said, “but if you can see them, you’ve got a vague sense of where you’re going.”

Q laughed over the phone.  Bond couldn’t tell if it was genuine without seeing Q’s face, but he didn’t particularly care.  Q was trying, for him.  He always tried when Bond called like this, not quite at the edge but close.Bond appreciated it.

“I’ve always liked Serpens,” Q said.  “It’s a constellation, not a star.”

“The serpent,” Bond said.

“You know it?”

“Anyone could guess that it’s a snake from the name, Q.”

Q laughed again.  It sounded genuine.  Bond rather hoped it was genuine, this time.

“It’s a snake, you’re right,” Q said.  “It’s held by Ophiuchus.”

“Bless you.”

“It’s a name,” Q said, only lightly scolding.  “Ancient interpretations of Ophiuchus and Serpens varied.  To the Greeks, it represented Apollo wrestling a snake that guarded the Oracle of Delphi.  Only later did it become Asclepius, who learned how to stave off death after watching snakes heal one another.  Of course, Jupiter—these were Romans, mind—didn’t like that Asclepius wanted to make humans immortal and smote him, reserving him a place in the stars.”

“How did they get from Asclepius to Ophiuchus?”

“Aratus,” Q said, “in the Renaissance, or some such.  These things are liable to change over time, you know.  Not even the stars are set in stone.”

After hanging up, Bond wondered about the stars, but it was two o’clock Hong Kong time and he needed to sleep before his mission started in earnest.He forced himself into bed and shut his eyes, willing his mind to silence.

He dreamt of snakes and lightning bolts.

* * *

 

II.

It was 1:13 London time when Bond called from Brazil.

“I’m actually still at Six,” Q said when asked why he sounded so awake.“Haven’t been home yet.”

“Your cats will be angry,” Bond said.  He was driving; Q could hear the hum of traffic and the _whoosh_ of passing vehicles from across the line.   _Couldn’t sleep_ , or so Bond had said.

Q shrugged, forgetting for a moment that Bond couldn’t see him.  “Rage,” he said.  “As angry as Achilles, do you think?”

“Rage rivaling that of Achilles?”

Q smiled.  “ _Rage—Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles, / murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses, / hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls, / great fighters’ souls, but made their bodies carrion, / feasts for the dogs and birds, / and the will of Zeus was moving toward its end_.”

“The _Iliad_ , isn’t it?” Bond asked.

“You haven’t completely abandoned your education, I see,” Q said.

“I couldn’t recite it word for word,” Bond said, “but it’s rather memorable.”

“I used to know it in Greek,” Q said.

Bond made a noise that sounded amused.  “You speak Greek?”

“Spoke,” Q said.  He yawned, stared down at his paperwork.  He couldn’t remember if he’d read that page yet or not.  “It’s been years.  Uni, you know.”

“Ah,” Bond said.  “Last week, then.”

Q laughed, and it was easy to forget all about rage and vengeance, death and destruction.

* * *

 

III.

It was close to one in the morning when Bond offered to drive Q home—to Q’s flat, to his cats, to his bed.  Q knew what was coming—what had been coming for weeks, months, perhaps since they’d met—but something about it sat wrong in his stomach.

“Have you ever heard the myth of Hyacinthus?” Q asked as Bond stripped him of his shirt, planting feverish kisses to the underside of his jaw.

“Tell me,” Bond said.  Even as his hands roved over Q’s body, he found it easy to think.  Perhaps it was the shock, the—was it disappointment? that this was how it was happening?  Either way, Q began the tale.

“Hyacinthus was a remarkably beautiful young man,” Q said.  “He was loved tremendously by Apollo, though he’d had other lovers and admirers over the years.  One of them was the West Wind, Zephyrus, and as Apollo and Hyacinthus tossed a discus back and forth, Zephyrus, jealous and furious, redirected the discus so that it struck and killed Hyacinthus.  Apollo, in his grief, forbade Hades from claiming his lover’s soul and instead made him into a flower, the hyacinth.”

Bond pulled away as Q realized his mistake.

“No,” Q said, trying to backpedal, “it’s—”

“Q,” Bond said, looking down at him.  

Q looked away and licked his lips.Whatever he was planning to say— _to lie_ and say—died on his lips.Instead, he said, “I suppose you should be leaving now.”

Bond sat back.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I thought…”

Bond didn’t finish the thought.He climbed off of Q and began dressing.Q shut his eyes and kept them that way until the door was shut and Bond was gone.

* * *

IV.

It was 1:46 in the morning and Q was at Vauxhall, sweating bullets.  He needed caffeine and he needed it _now_.

No, it wasn’t the caffeine he needed.  He needed his earpiece to feed him something other than gunfire and heavy breathing.  He needed to hear a voice, something that would at least tell him that Bond was doing anything other than bleed out.

“Come on,” Q said.  He didn’t know if Bond could hear him, but in truth, his words were more for himself than Bond.  Q had been on comms when agents died in the field, but it had never been someone he _knew_ , someone he… “Come on, I need you to get up.  You need to move, you need to get out of there.”

No response from Bond.  Truthfully, Q hadn’t expected one.

“Come on,” Q said, substantially softer.  Even knowing that the conversation would be recorded, Q said, “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified because everyone who loves you ends up dead, but we can’t talk about this if you die first so _get up_.”

Bond said nothing, and the heavy breathing that Q had been hoping would stop did.

Only, nothing replaced it.

“Time,” Q said, his mouth full of sandpaper.

“0151,” came the response from across the floor.Q had half-hoped Bond would say something, at long last, but he didn’t.

“Agent down.Time of death,” Q reported dutifully, “0151.”He set his earpiece down and rubbed his eyes.“Shit,” he said.  He thought about that night in his flat, about telling Bond the stupid story about hyacinths.  Classical mythology wasn’t going to bring his agent back.

The lines rose in his mind, though, almost without thought: “ _O blessed power, regard my ardent prayer, / and human life to age abundant spare._ ”

_To Thanatos_ , Q thought, mirthlessly.  As if that hymn had ever helped anyone.

* * *

 

V.

When all was said and done, Bond arrived at Q’s flat at 1:30 in the morning on the dot.  He’d been stitched and restitched until he felt more like Frankenstein’s monster than he’d ever thought he would.The Bolivian who’d done the stitching was long dead, rest his soul, and though he knew he ought to go see Medical first—at least check in with M—Bond had something to take care of first.

The lights were off in Q’s bedroom.  Bond could see so much from the street.  Even so, he palmed his mobile and dialed Q’s number.

The light didn’t go on, but Q answered.

“Bond?” he asked.  His voice sounded small, tentative.Exhaustion ran under that single syllable.

“Hello,” Bond said.  “Would you invite me up?  They sold all my things again.”

Q cursed, and Bond heard a muffled _meow_ as a cat was moved out of the way.The lights went on, and even out in the street, Bond had never felt more at home.

(“I thought you were dead,” Q said, after letting him in.  He changed Bond’s bandages and said he could stay as long as he liked.  Privately, Bond wondered if he would ever leave.  “Why didn’t you go to a hotel?”

“The company’s not nearly so good,” Bond said.  Q scowled, and Bond just smiled wider.  “Maybe I am dead.”

“What?”

“I’m looking at you,” Bond said.  “I must be in Elysium.”

Q tossed a pillow at him, but he grinned as he did it, so Bond counted it as a win.)


End file.
